


impurities of the soul (or some bullshit)

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [25]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bullying, Gen, Trauma, feat good sibling bonding time with cactus, i apologize to anyone who owns rats i love domesticated rats they r cute i promise, implied emotional abuse, implied verbal abuse, takes place vigil era then pre-zhaitan then current, unreliable narrator in first section, very brief and skippable physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29611800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Telling people that he "doesn't respond well to authority" would be an understatement.But what is Roza supposed to say?
Series: roza [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	impurities of the soul (or some bullshit)

**Author's Note:**

> there is a very brief instance of physical abuse, but the section is right at the beginning, in italics, and completely skippable, though it will be referenced afterwards. pointing this out because it's not the usual flavour for this series. ok hope yall like this and take care of yourselves! x x

There is a new warmaster whom Roza is not particularly fond of.

He apparently transferred in from the remote Vigil outposts in the Shiverpeaks, which meant that Roza sought him out as soon as he heard of his arrival. Laranthir had been encouraging him to make “friends” lately. It sounded terribly juvenile, to be frank, but he could recognize an opportunity to gain an ally when he saw it. It was unlikely that this warmaster would find him amiable in any way, but a slim chance was better than none at all, and Roza wanted to make a first impression before the whispers did.

Most people who are not norn do not like the Shiverpeaks; the mountains are cold and unforgiving, with thin air that is liable to steal all of one’s breath if they do not guard it close. They are difficult lands to survive in unless you are either exceptionally clever or exceptionally lucky. Unfortunately, Roza happens to be the unluckiest bastard he has ever met.

_“Name and rank, soldier.” The curt order cuts Roza off before he manages to get more than two sentences out._

_He pauses, wariness pricking his leaves. There is a warning in the bluntness of that tone. But—no, he is being overcautious. He straightens up, holding his head high. He will not be cowed by a nonexistent threat. He will not let anyone have power over his fear, especially not when they are not even in the room._

_“Tactician Roza, Sir.” He almost salutes, but stops himself. Laranthir has told him it is not protocol in informal discussions. Calm down. He will be fine. He will be fine._

_The warmaster makes a noise of disgust. “A waste of my time. Fine. I’ll do you the honour of informing you that it’s customary to salute in the presence of a superior officer, Tactician. And do not speak unless asked a question.”_

_That is not true. “Actually, the Vigil encourages fraternization between ranks so long as it does not incur a conflict of interest,” Roza corrects. Laranthir has told him about this policy in detail, and he is eager to show off his knowledge. “It encourages—”_

_Before he knows it he is on the ground, the left side of his face throbbing painfully. Through the ringing in his ears, he barely registers: “I said, ‘Do not speak unless asked a question,’” before the warmaster walks away, uncaring._

No one has ever struck him before.

Even the group that usually bothers him wouldn’t dare leave a mark, not while he is Laranthir’s ward. He should consider himself lucky, really. With empirical evidence it is an easy thing to report, and then Laranthir can act on it, and then…

And then Roza’s life will most likely continue to be hell, and nothing will have changed. He will still incite mockery, and snickering, and mean-spirited pranks. He will still be a satisfying outlet for the occasional superior officer who is having a bad day and wants to flex their authoritative muscle. After all, who is going to blink twice at the Grand Warmaster’s dear spoiled pet getting pushed around a little? Who is breaking any rules by giving him orders they are well within their rights to give?

It is why Roza usually stays in his room. Being excused from group training means he has more free time, which means he has more time to clean—no names, names have power—someone’s equipment, or their room, or be their “sparring partner,” or do half their duties for them, or be screamed at for no reason, and—he is beginning to shake now, and he should stop, because he is at Laranthir’s door. This is no place for such weakness.

As soon as he is called in to enter, he salutes, the previous day’s warning still ringing in his ears. Will Laranthir care? He does even not know anymore. His lives inside and outside of this office are so different that sometimes he thinks he is losing his mind.

After he has stood for some time with his arms pressing into his chest and back—he can feel the unsteady rhythm of his own breathing—Laranthir tilts his head to the side curiously.

“You alright there?” he calls. He beckons with one hand, curling his fingers. “Come. The food will get cold.”

Roza had been waiting for the _At ease,_ although that had dropped about a month into their arrangement. He does know anything anymore. Perhaps he _is_ losing his mind.

Laranthir usually strikes up a light conversation before they get started, oftentimes asking about his day or commenting on his own. This time, as Roza quietly pulls back his chair, there is a brief, but noticeable, pause.

A quick glance at Laranthir’s face reveals a small frown in the place of his usual smile. Roza feels his fingertips weaken and scolds himself immediately. He is being ridiculous—it is _Laranthir_. What is he going to do beyond make a frowny face?

“Is that a bruise?” he asks.

Ah. Roza’s hand flits to his face automatically. He does not know what he looks like—he does not have a mirror in his room—but if there is a mark then it makes this easier. Laranthir has been pestering him about… about telling, and he thinks he may—finally, _finally—_ be ready to rat out not only the warmaster but all of his persecutors. After all these months, Mother only knows they deserve it. It is an easy thing to do. So terribly easy. All he has to do is speak.

“I hit my head,” he says.

Laranthir’s kind eyes settle. “In the eye,” he clarifies.

Irrational, fear-spiked anger flares in Roza’s chest. “Yes! That is my answer, and you will have to accept it. Not everything about me is yours to excavate. I am my own person beyond your command.”

 _There_ , he thinks through the numbness buzzing in his brain. _That will show him_.

“Pale Mother,” Laranthir mutters. He reaches over his desk, and Roza tells himself that everything is _fine_ , he is _fine_ , nothing is going to happen and if something does, he is prepared for it. He has to be. Even if Laranthir turns against him. Even if—even if—

“Thorns, Roza, it’s alright.” Laranthir’s stable hands are wrapped around his own. “I am not trying to extort an explanation out of you. I just want to know if someone...”

He breaks off as he retracts his hands, and it is painfully obvious as to why. Roza stares down at the desk, willing himself to be anything less than humiliated. This is pathetic. Why can he not manage such a simple conversation? Why is his mouth dry, his mind laying in scattered pieces?

“Have I ever once forced you to answer a question you were not willing to answer?” Laranthir’s tone is far too gentle, and Roza despises it. “Or made you feel as if you had to, even if I didn’t say so?”

Roza suppresses a guilty grimace. “No,” he grits out, and alright, maybe Laranthir sounds like that for a reason, because if his voice were any less soft he is not certain he would find it as easy to reply.

Laranthir shakes his head. “No, Roza, that was a genuine question. The last thing I want to do is make you feel unsafe with me.”

Thorns and bloody brambles. “You are the only person around whom I feel safe,” Roza mumbles. “Can we eat? I am hungry.”

An effective way to change the subject. Laranthir acquiesces immediately, because he is easier to manipulate than a tamed rabbit. _Ha_ , Roza thinks as he hungrily tears into his bread. Now he is the one in control.

“Can you tell me who?” Laranthir asks quietly when he is reaching for a glass of water. He nearly drops it.

“Who, ah, about what?”

Laranthir gives him a look. Roza sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“What does it matter?” he mutters. A bit of hesitant prodding with his fingertip reveals the full extent of his bruised bark, and thorns, it covers nearly half his face. No wonder Laranthir noticed so quickly. “It will not change anything.”

Laranthir’s brows draw together in a frown. “It changes if they get away with it, and it changes the chance of it happening again. It will also help me to suggest modifications to our conduct rules—we are a relatively new organization, and there are a lot of gaps to squeeze through, as I’m sure you’ve been made aware.”

His stare is probing. Roza gives a half-shrug, averting his gaze.

After a long stretch of silence, Laranthir says, “I cannot help you if you don’t tell me anything, Roza.”

“You cannot help me at all!” he snaps. The stress of the past two days has frayed his temper. “The moment I leave your office, they cling to me like a disease. And no one gives a flying dolyak shit about how _I_ am treated—do you not understand? If it is not me then it will be someone else. No one wants to become the next victim.”

“The easiest victim is one who is known for keeping their silence,” Laranthir retorts sharply.

Roza stares at him, anger put on startled pause.

Laranthir pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. “I apologize; that was uncalled for. I don’t mean to imply that any of this is your fault—it is not. I simply… I do not enjoy seeing you be treated like this, not when I know I could be doing something about it. But I won’t push the matter if you are not ready—we can change the subject.” He clears his throat.

Roza keeps staring at him. He has never spoken like that before.

Laranthir smiles wanly. “I honestly didn’t mean to snap, Roza. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“No, it’s...” Roza knits his fingers together. Quietly, he asks, “Do you really think you could help?”

Laranthir nods, eyes alighting with fervour. “Absolutely. With the right information, I would be able to go from just giving strict talks about harassment to giving final warnings for violating the Vigil’s Code of Ethics. Direct accusations can do so much more than hearsay. Please. I know it’s frightening, and I know you fear retribution. But if you work with me, I promise I can help not only you, but also anyone else who may be in a similar position.”

Roza’s gaze falls to the desk. “I am constantly hounded by people who are well within their rights to order me around. You cannot tell them off for something they are allowed to do.”

“Then I will take those rights away from them.” Laranthir’s voice is firm. “It’s a temporary solution, but it will do until we can come up with a better one. We do have a department for this, although it is small. Hopefully this will show General Soulkeeper that we ought to devote resources to it.”

Roza watches as he fishes out his file from his desk—he’s come to easily recognize it after all the times Laranthir has had to slip in a complaint—and writes something down. “I’ll refine this later, but tell me how this sounds. As of right now, you will take orders from only three people unless otherwise specified: General Soulkeeper, Forgal, and myself. You will not out _rank_ anyone else, but you will not be subordinate to them.”

“You cannot enforce that,” Roza says, shocked. That must be violating some kind of rule. They will be furious with him if they find out—he shudders at the thought.

“Who is going to stop me?” Laranthir gives him a dry smile. “Come back tomorrow morning after I’ve worked out the details and I will have a signed declaration for you to carry around. If you happen to mysteriously ‘lose’ it overnight, I will give you another one. Power can be used for good as well as ill, Roza. Please, don’t believe that the only people who have it are the ones who abuse it.”

There is a lump in Roza’s throat. He must reveal the cards closest to his chest now, and it is a terrifying prospect, but what other hope does he have?

He says thickly, “I get nightmares on nearly a nightly basis. I cannot sleep. Every morning before dawn, Mer—they are pounding on my door ordering me to polish their armour, or clean their weapons, or be their target practice. After that I have training with Forgal. When I am not with you I am theirs again. I ache, always. I feel as if I will never know peace.”

He forces himself to keep eye contact even as he feels his voice grow thin and feeble. He knows it is pathetic. He knows he is admitting to a weakness he should not have. But he is so tired. So very tired.

Laranthir’s eyes are sombre. “You are not anyone’s slave,” he says softly. “No one has the right to bend your knee like that.”

“They tell me I deserve it because I am a loathsome person. That is why no one ever says anything.” Now that he has opened the can of grubs, it all comes spilling out. “Everyone else here hates me. I know you have heard the whispers. People tell the worst untruths about me. About why I am your protégé.” Untruths he will not repeat here, lest he desecrate this place. “I do not know what I did wrong. Do I really deserve all this torment?”

The last sentence is all but a plea. And thankfully Laranthir, bless his bleeding, swollen heart, hears it.

“Of course you do not,” he says, reaching out so Roza can cling to his patient hand. “You deserve nothing but love and happiness, Roza. And I will—look at me—I _swear_ I will do my utmost to protect you. I just need names and details.”

Roza squeezes his eyes shut, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Laranthir says, “I know it hurts to speak of. I am sorry to make you relive it when it feels safer to live in your head than in your body. You can stay there as long as you need to, but when you’re ready, I’m here.”

Roza opens his eyes. “How long do you have?” he asks dully.

“My evening is yours,” Laranthir replies without hesitation. “My week is yours if you need it to be.”

Alright. He can do this. Laranthir has been nothing but kind to him, despite the vast difference in their stations. He will help.

Roza breathes in slowly, and takes the plunge. “Fine. You will want to write this down.”

~*~

It is late when the knock comes to Trahearne’s door.

He is nodding off into an ancient Orrian tome he has worked hard to restore, the tip of his nose brushing its musty pages. He startles at the noise, though it is quiet, and the candle that has slid down his desk to totter perilously close to the dry ends of his foliage flickers. He moves it away, yawning into his elbow.

“Come in,” he calls, voice creaking around the word. There are very few people who would dare disturb him this late. Chief among them is someone whom he has been urgently trying to speak to for two days, and who has been consequently avoiding him like the plague.

The Mother’s blessing must be upon him, because it is in fact Roza who steps into his office. His gaunt face sharpens in the candlelight, the shadows around his eyes stretching past their sockets to creep into his cheeks. He look worse than Trahearne has ever seen him.

He does not apologize for disturbing him at this hour, nor does he point out that he is working well past midnight. He only says, quiet but even, “You wanted to speak with me, Marshal?”

His expression is inscrutable, not giving the slightest hint to his thoughts. That is something Trahearne has had to get used to; this older Roza holds himself together better than most of the people he has met in his short life. It is a marked contrast to how he was as a sapling: quick-tempered, impulsive, and easy to get a rise out of. Now in meetings he stands silently, unnoticeable enough to be hidden until he speaks up to tell Trahearne he is an idiot in the most polite manner possible.

Abrasive nature aside, he is at least getting better at offering advice without being asked first. (Trahearne suspects that that is largely due to a failed assault he later realized could have gone drastically differently with his input, and partly due to the conversation that had followed his shocked, “I did not think you would want to hear my opinion,” which had withered a good few leaves on Trahearne’s head. Nevertheless, any progress is progress.)

“Yes. Thank you for coming, Comman—Roza,” Trahearne corrects, tempering the rough edge of his voice. He motions to the free chair. “Please sit.”

It has been a little over a week since they had their rather… tumultuous confrontation. It has been little over two days since Tegwyn died.

Trahearne absently rubs at his eye, dragging the tired remains of his decorum out of the mud so he can appear put-together. There are times he feels as if he is a charlatan, as if his leadership is becoming more of an act with every passing day. But it matters not. He has a quest to finish, a campaign to lead, and Mother needs her champion.

Roza hesitates for but a moment, then seats himself. His movement is not unsure, exactly, but it is quick. Disquieted.

Trahearne is at a sudden loss of what to say to him. He had planned this conversation in his head; he had two days to mentally iterate it until it had a chance to not end in disaster. But now, with his distant commander staring at him in silence and the sound of insects buzzing outside giving his thoughts more room than they need, he does not know on which crumbling stone to step.

He ends up with, “I am certain you know what this is about,” which probably isn’t the best thing to say, but it is what he has.

Roza’s thin lips press into a line, then part. He says from somewhere in his throat, “Yes, Sir.”

Not exactly the response Trahearne had been hoping for. He searches his commander’s expression, his body language, anything to give him a clue as to where to steer this. At first there is nothing, save a brightness to his glow that can be easily written off as unrelated. But then: a twitch of his fingernail, a flicker of unsteady movement in his eyes. More: the tightness of his posture, a single droplet of something like apprehension in the Dream.

Something like it.

Trahearne frowns. Roza reacts instantly, if barely—his hands tighten and his eyes jolt with movement again, though it is too dark to tell to where. The apprehension takes on a thick, muddy edge.

He’s afraid, Trahearne realizes in dismay. But of what? He thought his bold commander feared nothing but failure, yet here he is acting as if he is going to be… scolded, perhaps? He did mention that in passing on the list of Everything Trahearne Has Done Wrong. Hoping his guess is correct, Trahearne assures, “You’re not in trouble.”

“Yes, Sir,” is the blank response once again.

That did not help. If anything, Roza seems more tense. Trahearne tries, “You came to me. Is there anything you wanted to say? Please, speak freely.”

Roza freezes. “That… I wanted to say?” he repeats. At a nod, “I… apologize. Sir.”

An apology? Trahearne frowns again, this time out of puzzlement. “For what?”

A beat of silence. Then Roza inhales, faint but audibly shaky. “For—for what I said to you.” His voice dies down to a whisper. “It was wrong of me to speak out of turn. I will not do so again, Sir.”

His response is so strange, so _wrong_ coming from such a person as he. Roza is abrasive, yes, and uncaringly hurtful at times, but he should not sound so small.. He should not look at Trahearne with such fear in his eyes. Trahearne has to quash down a flash of anger he did not know he was capable of in his battered state. It is somewhat surprising—their former and current close association aside, they are by no means friends. But he resigns himself to whatever may sit in his heart. He knows his own guilty mind well, and if it tugs at him, he will let it tug.

“Roza, you did nothing wrong,” he says softly, switching tactics now that he has less of a blind grasp on the situation. “Please do not feel forced to apologize for simply speaking your mind. I do not run a dictatorship.”

Roza’s eyes dart across his unevenly. He is still searching for a motive that does not exist. “Of course, Sir.”

He inclines his head, lowering his gaze almost submissively, and it curdles a spindly, sick feeling in Trahearne’s stomach. Despite the rockiness of their relationship, he does not enjoy this. He does not like the implications of it at all. He pushes his rising inner turmoil to the back of his mind lest it bleed through—he can pick it apart later.

“I’m not upset,” he reassures as gently as he can, reaching out but stopping at the last moment. He is unsure what would be welcome, especially considering Roza’s dislike of physical contact. Or his _apparent_ dislike, and Trahearne will not think of that right now.

The reassurance does not appear to be a part of Roza’s script; he eyes Trahearne suspiciously, but curiously. Not a lost cause, then, thank the Pale Tree.

He seems to be waiting for Trahearne to continue, so he does. “It is hard to lose someone under your command on a mission, especially if you knew them. I wanted to check in on you.”

A second emotion flashes across Roza’s face, blessedly neutral: incredulity. “You… what?”

Trahearne unconsciously lowers his voice. “I spoke to the Pale Reavers about what happened. It must have been hard. I know you and Tegwyn did not get along at first, but she came to greatly admire you, in the end. From what I heard, you two worked well together.”

Roza exhales harshly. “What does that matter? What does it matter to _you_ , after what I said? Are you not angry with me? Do you not care?”

Trahearne remembers exactly what he had said, and how much of a gut blow it had been at the time. But now… “I care,” he replies softly. “But I am not angry. This must be difficult for you.”

“Therefore I am allowed to say whatever the fuck I want?” Roza laughs in disbelief. “Your favourite student is dead and you are left with _me_ , of all miserable pricks. I throw that back in your face and all you say is ‘This must be difficult for you?’”

His voice takes on a hysterical edge. “That cannot be it. Are you going to punish me? Kick me out of the Pact as—as humiliatingly as possible? You can do it. I will accept my dues.”

He speaks so daringly, but there is grief in the depths of his eyes. There is fear still. Trahearne is beginning to realize that the louder he barks, the more terrified he must be.

“Roza,” he says, “Do you hear how you speak about yourself? What do you think my reaction was when you came back from one of the worst places in Tyria and asked me if I wished you had died in her place? Do you truly believe I thought foremost of _myself_?”

Roza makes a gasping, open-mouthed noise. “Do I—do I—yes! I insulted you. I dared—I dared—what does how I speak about myself have to—do with it?”

He’s beginning to hyperventilate, Trahearne realizes in alarm. Roza had told him about his “episodes,” as he called them, but not what to do if one happened. Knowing him, he probably does not even think something _should_ be done.

“Never mind that.” Trahearne switches tracks. “You seem like you’re about to pass out. It’s alright—breathe slowly. I told you, you’re not in trouble.”

Roza stares at him as if he has grown wings out of his ears. “I’m breath—I’m breathing slowly,” he hiccups.

Pale Mother. Trahearne raises his hands in the universal gesture to calm down, because if Roza will not listen to his words he may listen to his actions. His commander reaches out and—grabs one in a deathly tight grip.

Trahearne quashes down his surprise and offers his other hand, and after a moment of hesitation Roza takes that as well. Finally, he takes a slow, if ragged, breath.

If it works, despite the feeling draining from Trahearne’s fingers, it works. They sit together in silence for a few minutes. Roza’s audible wheezing eventually quietens, and he bows his head.

“Maybe you should turn in for the night,” Trahearne suggests when he feels it is safe to speak. “You should recover from your ordeals as best you can.”

Roza’s head jolts back up. “We were speaking.”

“And it was clearly upsetting you.” Trahearne is absolutely not going to forge onwards with someone in this state when he knows they are emotionally volatile and suicidal, by the Pale Tree. He offers a smile, hoping it lands somewhere. “It is a discussion for another day, not now in the middle of all of this. Get some rest, Commander.”

Roza stares at him for a moment more, before retracting his hands and standing up with stilted movements. He hesitates, then says stiffly, “You as well, Marshal.”

Trahearne’s arms drop in surprise. Roza pauses by the doorframe, lifting his chin to artificial heights. “This does not mean I like you. Because I do not.”

And then, pride evidently restored, he leaves.

Of all things, Trahearne has to wrestle against a smile. _Blessed Mother, help me guide him_ , he prays, leaning into his hand. They may dance two steps back and only one forward, but at least they are moving. And at least there is something genuine to be scratched at underneath all of Roza’s pretenses, although it is too early to tell whether it is coal or diamond.

~*~

Canach watches as the being in front of him picks up another rat by its tail, inspects it clinically, and then sighs over its screeching and tosses it aside. One more rodent failing to meet the nonsensical standards of his disgusting project du jour. Roza crouches to the ground again, muttering about “insufficient growth potential.”

There seems to be a split difference between what he considers to be an animal and what he considers to be an experiment waiting to happen. Canach supposes that is a requirement to being a necromancer—Roza certainly commits the sin at times of assigning the “experiment” label to organisms that are a little too sentient. Canach is following him because he rarely kills fresh for reanimation, and it is funny to see him hunting down rats like a bleached, particularly bony mongoose.

He has also spent the entire day trying to think of a tactful way to ask him a certain… question. He would normally just ask, tactfulness be damned, but the last thing he wants is for the rat failures to end up in the most difficult-to-clean parts of his armour. That is the annoying thing about pissing Roza off: you only find out you’ve done so three days later.

Fuck it. “Did you take anything with you when you joined the Pact?” Canach asks. “Something of sentimental value, perhaps?”

Roza slowly turns his head towards him. “Pardon?”

“Perhaps a novel or a necromantic tome?” Or, heavens forbid, a poetry collection? Pale Mother’s blooming backside, Canach certainly knows how to pick them. “You like to read, right?”

Roza splays his spindly fingers against the ground, then pushes up with surprising strength to rise to his feet. He must have practiced that—Canach could have sworn he was barely capable of a push-up.

“Is there a reason you are asking me intrusive personal questions, dear brother?” Roza looks him over with a dismissive air. “This cannot be why you’ve been stuck to my boots like mud all day.”

It’s been too long since his last visit. Is that normal rude or anger rude? It doesn’t matter, Canach decides. Life is too short, and violent with or without Roza’s contribution.

“Is it a crime to inquire in genuine interest?” Canach crosses his arms. “Perhaps I just want to get to know you better.”

“ _Ah._ This is about the Scrying Pool.”

Damn him. “No,” Canach lies.

Roza raises a dry eyebrow. “You’ve finally explored all the content of your favourite romantic drama, and now you want my tragic backstory as well, is that it?” He clicks his tongue. “Greedy little weed.”

That is exactly it. “That is not it at all,” Canach objects archly. “I am simply taking an interest in your past. I never had the absolute _joy_ of experiencing you as a sapling.”

There. There is no way he will not rise to that bait.

“So you admit you want to use the Scrying Pool.”

 _Ugh_. “Fine, yes! If you’re going to keep pestering me about it, then yes. I have no wish to go around in circles with you for hours. So? Did you have a favourite scarf or something?”

Roza gazes at him for a moment. For a second Canach thinks he is going to retract his informal permission, but he only says, “Actually, no. I did not have any keepsakes from that time, so even if you go looking through my belongings, you will not find anything. It is for the best, really. Some things should stay veiled.”

Well, isn’t _that_ just the juiciest statement? “What do you mean?” Canach asks, curiosity piqued.

Roza’s eyes grow shadowed. “Nothing. It is not worth looking back on, Brother. If you really want something interesting, you can have my scepter from before I used Caladbolg. I got up to all kinds of random nonsense that I am sure will keep you entertained for hours.”

He walks away to go digging in the dirt again, apparently done with the discussion. Canach, however, is only more intrigued by his response. What, exactly, _was_ his past before the Pact? Why is he always so avoidant of it? Does he simply not want to reflect, or did something happen?

Canach follows him once more, catching up and kneeling next to him in the long grass. Roza holds up a spotted rat for him to join in inspecting.

“Look,” he says. “This one was limping, poor thing, so I was able to catch her. The back claw of this foot,” he prods at it, not minding the offended squeak and scratch it gets him, “bends back too far. A birth defect: she is perfect.”

He swiftly draws his forefinger across the rodent’s throat, and it falls limp in a swirl of necrotic energy. At least he is somewhat humane about it, Canach thinks as he tosses it into his bag.

“Help me catch one, or ask your imminent query. I have not the time for both.” Roza crouches into the grass again, going still.

Very well. Canach, too, has little patience for a game of pretenses. “What happened?” he asks.

“Ah. You have learned the art of asking direct questions instead of prying for answers where your unwelcome fingers will be cut if you are caught. Frankly, I never thought you would get there.”

“And _you_ are stalling,” Canach rebuts. “Two can play your verbal games, Roza.”

Roza pulls his hands to his lap and looks at him. “Fine. But it does not mean I have to answer fully.”

“You do not have to.” Canach does not mean that to sound as compassionate as it comes out, so he adds a frown to temper it. “Your secrets are yours to guard as you will.”

“I know. I mean—it is not a secret.” Roza presses the ball of his thumb to his eye socket, letting out a short breath of frustration. “Fine. Come.”

They sit in a small clearing surrounding a nearby tree. Roza goes through his rat bag—which is stinking, so it must be the project of a few days at least—under the pretense of looking for holes, and Canach lets him delay. If their pasts are similar in any way… he understands. More than he would like to.

Roza eventually sets his bag aside, tucking his legs underneath himself with a small sigh. “You spied only on the moments when Trahearne and I were together, correct?” he asks bluntly. “Did you watch all of it, or did you skip the dreary bits?”

“The Scrying Pool does not show everything.” Canach considers how to best put this. “Just… moments that made an impact on the subject’s memory. There were a lot of boring, sentimental parts I skipped, if that is what you are asking.”

He did not skip them, exactly, but he will not admit to getting caught up in all of the… banal, syrupy bullshit. It is unbecoming of his tasteful sensibilities. From Roza’s faint smile, he suspects it regardless.

“I see,” he says. “Then know that… there was much going on beyond what you saw.” He glances away for a moment. “There was an important period of time when Trahearne was learning how to deal with me, and I was getting accustomed to being… under the command of someone who treated me as he did.”

“Did he mistreat you?” The question comes from Canach, aghast, before he can stop it.

“Did he _what?_ No, of course not!” Roza’s shocked glare quickly takes on a furious edge. “How dare you?!”

“You worded it so suspiciously!” Canach defends. “And I’ve heard how you speak of him sometimes. You cannot blame me for having the thought cross my mind.”

“How I _speak_ of him? What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know.” Canach puts on his best Roza impression, jutting his chin out and arching his hands. Judging from the doubled intensity of the glower, it is accurate. “‘Oh, Trahearne made me eat _breakfast_ today, Canach, and I don’t have his say-so to drink with you, so go be a miserable bastard by your _self_ for once. _My_ Trahearne gave me _bruises_ that I am wearing _such_ a high collar to hide—'”

“Nightmare’s sake.” Roza covers his face with his hands. “Alright, I get it, you can shut up! I do not sound like _that._ ”

“You absolutely do,” Canach crows.

“Oh, for…” Roza’s head ducks down further, muffling his voice. “Trahearne simply… takes care of me. Alright? We have discussed it.”

Oh. _Oh,_ Canach thinks as Roza peeks at him through his fingers and begins to cautiously lower them. He certainly wasn’t expecting to hear _that_.

“I see,” he says, just so he will not be the one who is the most humiliated right now. “And just when I thought you could finally be with him without having to worry about the power dynamic. Although… _worry_ isn’t quite the right word, is it?”

Roza’s cheeks flare, confirming his suspicions. “Shut up,” he hisses.

By now there is no world in which Canach isn’t going to end up with all manner of defiled vermin in his clothing, so he might as well enjoy this. “I thought you’d be the type. It’s always the ones with a superiority complex,” he says, and Roza reaches into his bag and throws a dead rat at him.

Seven minutes later sees them at a carefully-negotiated alliance (spurred by Canach holding an—apparently blind?—rat hostage), although Roza has transitioned from hiding his face in his hands to hiding it in Canach’s shoulder. It is not indicative of anything, he tells himself. There is no reason to be in any way jubilant about it, which he is very much not. Roza is... the most touchy-feely person he knows. Of course.

“It was not Trahearne who mistreated me,” Roza says eventually, as he is toying with the fastenings of Canach’s armour. His voice is carefully devoid of inflection. “He… challenged my expectations, let us say, of what I thought being under the command of a stranger was supposed to be like.”

Oh. Canach thumbs over the misshapen lump on a semi-rotted rat’s head, where it had failed to grow its right ear. “Are they dead now?”

Roza’s head turns against his shoulder, and he watches his pointless fiddling for a long, silent moment.

“I do not know,” he answers finally. “I did not ask after them when they were no longer my issue. I never learned what became of them.”

Canach puts the rat back in the sac. Roza continues, almost distractedly, “By the time we formed the Pact and it stopped, my reputation preceded me. I was not well-liked at first. Occasionally someone would play a prank on me or set me off on purpose, and I’m sure even you must have heard the odd scurrilous rumour. Still, it was not the same as before. Most people respected me.”

His eyelids lower. “Though it was too late to make much difference to me at that point. I was already damaged goods.”

“‘Damaged goods?’ Don’t you dare insult the both of us like that, Roza.” Canach strokes over the ridge of his brow, then pricks him with a spine. “And so what? Nothing you do can regain the innocence that was taken from you. Do not blame yourself for not having it.”

“Thorns, what is wrong with you?” Roza rubs at his forehead where he was jabbed. “And I do not need your self-help book, even if you so _clearly_ have your life figured out, but thank you for offering regardless.”

Prick. “Well I’m sitting here with you, so what does that say?” Canach mutters. Roza smiles at him unexpectedly, and honestly, fuck him for that. No one should be able to affect him so damned easily.

“Are you, ah, going to stay for tea?” Roza asks hopefully, right when Canach is in the middle of trying to convince himself that he is a stoic individual with an impregnable emotional barrier. “It… is not very good at the moment, but I am trying to get into the habit of it and I think I quite enjoy it so far! I believe I prefer tea over water.”

And then he has to go and say stupid shite like that. “Yes, fine, alright,” Canach grumbles before Roza can go on about how boiling decayed life cleanses the impurities of the soul or some bullshit. There is a reason he did not ask what the rats are for. “But if you don’t have those little graham biscuits Kas and Jory keep in their kitchen jar, I’m leaving.”

“I will get biscuits,” Roza entreats desperately.

He could do with a little less innocence at times, Canach thinks privately, even as he hums and pretends to consider the offer, and Roza squints at him with suspicious beady eyes. He agrees just as Roza is beginning to reach into his rat bag, and what he saves himself from he does not know. What he does know is that there is something good in his life right now, and despite its many flaws, he will not ruin it.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it, and if you did i'd love to hear your thoughts! <3 no song for this one, but have a lovely week everyone! ;U;;


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